Sandburrs and Others

MOLLIE PRESCOTT

The Cactus” was the name bestowed upon her in Wolfville. Her signature, if she had written it, would probably have been Mollie Prescott, at least such was the declaration of Cherokee Hall.

“I sees this yere lady a year ago in Tombstone,” asserted that veracious chronicler, “where she cooks at the stage station; an’ she gives it out she’s Prescott – Mollie Prescott – an’ most likely she knows her name, an’ knows it a year ago.”

As Cherokee was a historian of known firmness of statement, no one cared to challenge either his facts or his conclusions. The true name of “The Cactus” was accepted by the Wolfville public as Prescott.

“The Cactus” was personable, and her advent into Wolfville society caused something of a flutter. Her mission was to cook, and in the fulfilment of her destiny she presided over the range at the stage station.

Being publicly hailed as “The Cactus” seemed in no wise to depress her. It was even possible she took a secret glow over an epithet, meant by the critical taste awarding it, to illustrate those thorns in her nature which repelled and held in check the amorous male of Wolfville.

Women were not frequent in Wolfville, and on her coming, “The Cactus” had many admirers. Every man in camp loved her the moment she stepped from the Tucson stage; that is, every man save Cherokee Hall. That scientist, given wholly to faro as a philosophy, had no time – in a day before he met Faro Nell – for so dulcet an affair as love. Also Cherokee had scruples born of his business.

“Life behind a deal box is a mighty sight too fantastic,” observed the thoughtful Cherokee, “for a fam’ly. It does well enough for single-footers, which it don’t make much difference with when some gent they’ve mortified an’ hurt, pulls his six-shooter an’ sends them lopin’ home to heaven all spraddled out. But a lady ain’t got no business with a sport who turns kyards as a pursoot.”

As time unfurled, the train of lovers to sigh on the daily trail of “The Cactus” dwindled. There were those who grew dispirited.

“I’m clean-strain enough,” said Dan Boggs, in apologetic description of his failure to persevere, “but I knows when I’ve got through. I’ll play a game to a finish, but when it’s down to the turn an’ my last chip’s gone over to the dealer, why! I shoves my chair back an’ quits. An’ it’s about that a-way of an’ concernin’ my yearnin’s for this yere Cactus girl. I jest can’t get her none, an’ that settles it. I now drops out an’ gives up my seat complete.”

“That’s whatever!” said Texas Thompson, who was an interested listener to the defeated Boggs, “an’ you can gamble I’m with you on them views! Seein’ as how my wife in Laredo gets herse’f that divorce, I turns in an’ loves this Cactus person myse’f to a frightful degree. Thar’s times I simply goes about sobbin’ them sentiments publicly. But yere awhile back I comes wanderin’ ‘round her kitchen, an’ bing! arrives a skillet at my head. That lets me out! You bet! I don’t pursoo them explorations ‘round her no more. I has exper’ence with one, an’ I don’t aim to get any lariat onto a second female who is that callous as to go a-chunkin’ of kitchen bric-a-brac at a heart which is merely pinin’ for her smiles.”

There were two at the shrine of “The Cactus,” who were known to Wolfville, respectively, as Cottonwood Wasson and Cape Jinks. These were distinguished for the ardour wherewith they made siege to the affection of “The Cactus,” and the energy of their demands for her capitulation.

That virgin, however, paid neither heed to their court, nor took an interest in the comment of onlook-ing Wolfville. She pursued her path in life, even and unmoved. She set her tables, washed her dishes, and perfected her daily beefsteaks by the ingenious process, popular in the Southwest, of burning them on the griddles of the range, and all with a composure bordering hard on the stolid.

“All I’m afraid of,” said Old Man Enright, the head of the local vigilance committee, “is that some of these yere young bucks’ll take to pawin’ ‘round for trouble with each other. As the upshot of sech doin’s would most likely be the stringin’ of the survivors by the committee, nuptials, which now looks plenty feasible, would be plumb busted an’ alienated, an’ the camp get a setback it would be hard to rally from. I wishes this maiden would tip her hand to some discreet gent, so a play could be made in advance to get the wrong parties over to Tucson or some’ers. Whatever do you think yourse’f, Cherokee?”

“It’s a delicate deal,” replied that philosopher, “to go tamperin’ ‘round a lady for the secret of her soul. But I shorely deems the occasion a crisis, an* public interest demands somethin’ is done. I wish Doc Peets was yere; he knows these skirted cattle like I does an ace. But Peets won’t be back for a month; pendin’ of which, onless we-alls interferes, it’s my jedgment some of this yere amorousness ‘ll come off in the smoke.”

“Thar ought to be statoots,” observed Texas Thompson, with a fine air of wisdom, “ag’in love-makin’ in the far West. The East should be kept for sech purposes speshul; same as reservations for Injuns. The Western climate’s too exyooberant for love.”

“S’pose me an’ you an’ Thompson yere goes to this young person, an’ all p’lite an’ congenial like, we ups an’ asks her intentions?” remarked Enright. This was offered to Cherokee.

“Excuse me, pards!” said Texas Thompson with eagerness, “but I don’t reckon I wants kyards in this at all. ‘The Cactus’ is a mighty fine young bein’, but you-alls recalls as how I’ve been ha’ntin’ ‘round her somewhat in the past myse’f. For which reason, with others, she might take my comin’ on sech errants derisive, an’ bust me over the forehead with a dipper, or some sech objectionable play. I allows I better keep out of this embroglio a whole lot. I ain’t aiming to shirk nothin’, but it’ll be a heap more shore to win.”

“Thompson ain’t onlikely to be plenty right about this,” said Cherokee, “an’ I reckons, Enright, we-alls better take this trick ourse’ves.”

The mission was not a success. When the worthy pair of peace-preservers appeared in the presence of “The Cactus,” and made the inquiries noted, the scorn of that damsel was excited beyond the power of words to describe.

“What be you-alls doin’ in my kitchen?” she cried, her face a-flush with rage and noonday cookery. “Who sends you-alls curvin’ over to me, a-makin’ of them insultin’ bluffs? I demands to know!”

“An’ yere,” said Cherokee Hall, relating the exploit in the Red Light immediately thereafter, “she stamps her foot like a buck antelope, an’ lets fly a stovelifter at us; an’ all with a proud, high air, which reminds me a mighty sight of a goddess.”

At the time, it would seem, the duo attempted to show popular cause for their presence, and made an effort to point out to “The Cactus” the crying public need of some decision on her part.

“You-all don’t want the young male persons of this village to take to shootin’ of each other all up none, do you?” asked Enright.

“I wants you two beasts to get outen my kitchen!” replied “The Cactus” vigorously; “an’ I wants you to move some hurried, too. Don’t never let me find your moccasin tracks ‘round yere no more, or I’ll turn in an’ mark you up.”

“Yere, you!” she continued as the ambassadors were about to leave, something cast down by the conference; “you-alls can tell the folks of this town, that if they’re idiots enough to go makin’ a gun play over me, to make it. They has shore pestered me enough!”

“Which I don’t wonder none at Thompson bein’ reluctant an’ doobious about seein’ this Cactus lady,” said Enright, as the two walked away.

“She’s some fiery, an’ that’s a fact!” observed Cherokee in assent.

The result of the talk with “The Cactus” found its way about Wolfville, and in less than an hour bore its hateful fruit. The peaceful quiet of the Red Light, which, as a rule, was wounded by no harsher notes than the flutter of a stack of chips, was rudely broken.

“Gents who ain’t interested, better hunt a lower limb!”

It was the voice of Cottonwood Wasson. The trained instincts of Wolfville at once grasped the trouble, and proceeded to hide its many heads behind barrels, tables, counters, and anything which promised refuge from the bullets.

All but one; Cape Jinks. He knew it meant him the moment Cottonwood Wasson uttered the first syllable, and his pistol came bluntly to the fore without a word. His rival’s was already there, and the shooting set in like a hailstorm. As a result, Cottonwood Wasson received an injury that crippled his arm for days, while Cape Jinks was picked up with a hole in his side, which even the sanguine sentiment of Wolfville, inclined to a hardy optimism at all times, called dangerous.

“Well!” said Old Man Enright, drawing a deep, troubled breath, after the duellists were cared for at the O. K. House, “yere we be ag’in an’ nothin’ settled! Thar’s all this shootin’, an’ this blood-lettin’, an’ the camp gets all torn up; an’ thar’s as many of these people now as thar is before, an’ most likely the whole deal to go over ag’in.”

“I shore ‘bominates things a-splittin’ even that a-way!” said Cherokee.

The next day a new face was given the affair when “The Cactus” was observed, clothed in her best frock and with two violent red roses in her straw hat, to take the stage for Tucson. The stage company reported, in deference to the excited state of the Wolfville mind, that “The Cactus” would return in a week.

“Goin’ for her weddin’ trowsoo, most likely,” said Dan Boggs, as he gazed after the stage.

“Let’s drink to the hope she wins out a red dress!” remarked Texas Thompson. “Set up the bottles, bar-keep, an’ don’t let no gent pass up the play. Which red is my fav’rite colour!”

No one seemed to know the intentions of “The Cactus.” The shooting would appear to have in nowise disturbed her. That may have been her obdurate heart, or it may have come from a familiarity with the evanescent tenure of human life, born of her years on the border. Be that as one will, she expressed not the least concern touching her brace of wounded lovers, and took the stage without saying good-bye to any one.

“An’ some fools say women is talkers!” remarked Jack Moore, the Marshal, in high disgust.

Three days later Old Monte, the stage driver, came in with thrilling news. “The Cactus” had wedded a man in Tucson, and would bring him to Wolfville in a week.

“When I first hears of it,” went on Old Monte with a groan, “an’ when I thinks of them two pore boys a-layin’ in Wolfville, an’ their claims bein’ raffled off in that heartless way, I shore thinks I’ll take my Winchester an’ stop them marriage rites if I has to crease the preacher. But, pards, the Tucson marshal wouldn’t have it. He stan’s me off. So she nails him; an’ the barkeep at the Oriental Saloon tells me over thar, how she’s been organisin’ to wed this yere prairie dog before she ever hops into Wolfville at all. I sees him afterwards; an’, gents! for looks, he don’t break even with horned toads!”

“Thar you be!” said Enright, making a deprecatory gesture, “another case of woman, lovely woman! However, even if this Cactus lady has done rung in a cold hand onto us, we must still prance ‘round an’ show her a good time when she trails in with her prey. Where the honour of the camp is concerned, we whoops it up! Of course the Cactus don’t please us none with this deal; but most likely she pleases herse’f, which, after all, is the next best thing. Gents,” concluded Enright, after a pause, “the return of the new couple will be the signal of a general upheaval in their honour. It’s to be hoped our young friends, Cottonwood an’ Jinks, will by then be healthful enough to participate tharin. Barkeep! the liquor, please! Boys, the limit’s off; wherefore drink hearty!”

“Which I has preemonitions from the first, this yere Cactus female is a brace game,” remarked Texas Thompson, as he filled his glass; “that’s whatever!”

“Oh! I don’t know!” replied Cherokee Hall thoughtfully. “She has her right to place her bets to please herse’f, an’ win or lose, this camp should be proud to turn for her. Wolfville can’t always make a killin’ – can’t always be on velvet; but as long as the Cactus an’ her victim pitches camp yere, Wolfville can call herse’f ahead on the deal. I sees no room for cavil, an’ I yereby freights my glass to the Cactus an’ the shorthorn she’s tied down.”

ANNA MARIE

Anna Marie was to be a new woman. She had decided that for herself. In the carrying out of her destinies, Anna Marie had cut her hair short. She also made a specialty of very mannish costumes, and, outwardly, at least, became as virile as a woman might be with a make-up the basis of which was bound to be a skirt.

Anna Marie was motherless, and at the age of nineteen, when she determined to become a new woman, had no advice save her father’s to depend on. When she discussed an adoption of broader and more masculine methods on her girlish part with her father, the old gentleman looked puzzled, and said:

“Well, my dear! I have great confidence in your judgment. There is nothing like experience, so go ahead. You will find, however, before you have gone far, that you labour under many structural defects. The great Architect didn’t lay you out for a man, Anna Marie; you were not intended for such a fate.” However, Anna Marie kept on. She was looking for a fuller liberty and a wider field. She was too delicately and too accurately determined in her tastes to be a fool to cigarettes, or swept down in a current of profanity. Bad language she would leave to the real man; in her career as a new woman nothing so vigorous was needed.

But men did other things, had other freedoms; and from that long male list of liberties Anna Marie proceeded to pick out a line of freedom for herself. She had had enough of that pent-up Utica which confines the conventional woman. What she wanted was more room: that is, of proper, decorous sort.

Of course, as Anna Marie proceeded up the long trail of masculinity, it was noted by critics that she still continued essentially feminine as to many common male accomplishments. She could not throw a stone, except in that vague, pawey, overhand fashion usual with ladies, and which confers on the missile neither direction nor force. And when Anna Marie essayed to run, she still put everybody in mind of a cow trying to keep an engagement.

While others noted those solemn truths, Anna Marie did not. She thought she was making strenuous progress, and combed her short hair as a man combs his, and walked with long, decided stride.

Anna Marie rode a bike, and decided to don bloomers for this ceremony. She came to the bloomer decision hesitatingly, but made up her mind at last. Secretly she regarded bloomers as the Rubicon. It was bloomers which flowed between herself and the new woman in full standing; and once Anna Marie had broken on the world in this ill-considered costume, she would feel herself graduated, and no longer at school to Destiny. Therefore, there dawned a day when Anna Marie came down the avenue on her bike, be-bloomered to heart’s content. She had made the plunge; the Rubicon was crossed, and Anna Marie felt now like a female Cæsar who must conquer or die.

On the bike-bloomer occasion Anna Marie was weak enough to hurry. She put her unbridled steed to fullest speed, and flashed by the onlookers like unto some sweet meteor. She blamed herself afterward for being such a craven, but concluded that by sticking to her bloomers she would acquire heart and slacken speed in time.

The worst feature about the bloomer business was that Anna Marie wotted not how hideous she looked. She did not know that a printer on his way to his case, caught a fleeting impression of her as she sped by, and that he at once “put on a sub.,” took a night off, and became dejectedly yet fully drunk. Nor did she wist that a nervous person was so affected by the awful tout ensemble of herself, bike, and bloomers that he repaired to Bloomingdale and sternly demanded admission as a right.

No; Anna Marie rode all too frightened and too fast to reap these truths. Still, she might not have altered her system if she had known. For Anna Marie was resolute. Bent as Anna Marie was on her completion as a new woman, she resolved to inhabit bloomers and ride her two-wheeled vehicle even unto a grey old age. How else, indeed, could she be a new woman? A girl friend who had stood appalled at the vigour of Anna Marie asked her as to the bloomers.

“They are good things,” observed Anna Marie. “There’s a comfort in bloomers which lurks not in the tangled wilderness of the ordinary skirt. Their fault is that in donning bloomers one does not put them on over one’s head. It is a great defect. As it is, one never feels more than half-dressed.” Anna Marie declared that the great want of the day was bloomers, through which one thrust one’s arms and head in the process of harnessing.

Anna Marie had a brother George. This youth was twelve years of age. George was essentially masculine. Anna Marie could see that, and it came to her as a thought that in the course of becoming a new woman of fullest feather, a good, ripe method would be to study George. Should she do as George did, young though he was, she was sure to succeed. George would do from instinct what she must do by imitation. Anna Marie felt these things without really and definitely thinking them. It so fell out that, without telling George, Anna Marie began to take him as guide, philosopher and friend. And all without really knowing it herself.

Unconsciously, George loved her all the better because of this, and, moved by a warm, ingenuous lack of years, began to take Anna Marie into his confidence like true comrade. Anna Marie encouraged his frankness.

“George,” said Anna Marie, one day, “whenever you are about to do anything peculiarly boyish and interesting, always tell me, so that I may join you in your sport.”

George said he would, and he did.

It so befell one day, as the fruit of this comradeship, that George changed the channel of Anna Marie’s manly determination, and caused her to abandon the rôle of a new woman. This is the story, and it all taught Anna Marie, with the rush of a landslide, that, however industriously she might prune and train her habits to the trellis of the male, she would never be able to bring her nature to that state of icy, egotistical, cold-blooded hardihood absolutely necessary to the perfect man, and therefore indispensable to the new woman. But the story.

“Anna Marie,” said George, coming on her one day, “Anna Marie, me and Billy Sweet wants you.”

“What is it, George?” asked Anna Marie.

“We’re going to hang a dog out back of the barn,” explained George. “Me and Billy are to be the jury, and we want you for judge. Hurry up, now! that’s a good fellow!”

Anna Marie felt a shock at thought of taking the life of anything. Her first feeling was that George was a brute – a mere animal himself. But Anna Marie quickly reflected, that, whatever George might be, at least his hardened sex was the promontory the new woman must steer by. She put down the garment she was sewing and sought the scene of canine trial.

“You see, Anna Marie!” explained George, pointing to a saffron-coloured dog, which stood with dolorous tail between his legs and looked very repentant, “he murdered a kitten, and we are going to try to convict and hang him. You sit down there by the fence, and the trial won’t take a minute. Billy and me have got our minds made up, and we won’t take no time to decide. There’s the rope, and we’re going to hang him to the limb of that maple.”

Anna Marie felt worried. Still, she allowed herself to be installed, and the trial proceeded. It was very brief. George produced the defunct kitten, – which looked indeed, very dead, – with the remark, “Say, you yellow dog! you’re charged with murdering this cat; have you got anything to say against being hung?”

The yellow cur feebly wagged his disreputable tail, and looked at Anna Marie in a fashion of sneaking appeal. He said as plain as words: “Save me!”

“I wouldn’t hang the poor thing, George,” said Anna Marie, and she began to pat the felon yellow cur.

“You’re a great judge!” remonstrated George, indignantly. “It ain’t for you to decide; it’s for me and Billy. We are the jury, and in favour of hanging him, ain’t we, Billy?”

Billy nodded emphatically.

“But, George,” expostulated Anna Marie, “it is so cruel! so brutal!”

“Brutal!” scoffed George. “Don’t they hang folks for murder every day? You wear bloomers and talk of being a new woman and having the rights of a man! I have heard you with that Sanford girl! And now you come out here and try to talk off a yellow dog who is guilty of murder, and admits it by his silence! You would act nice if it was a real man and a real murder case! Come on, Billy; let’s string him up.”

Here George seized on the cowering victim of lynch law, and started for the maple, where the rope already dangled for its prey. Anna Marie became utterly feminine at this, and burst into tears. Her nineteen years and her progress toward a new womanhood did not save her. In her distress she turned to the other member of the jury.

Billy Sweet, at the age of thirteen, was an ardent admirer of George’s sister, loved her dearly, if secretly, and meant to marry her in ten or fifteen years, when he grew up. At present he played with George and kept a loving eye on his future bride. Anna Marie knew of Billy’s partiality, so she cunningly turned on this admirer, like a true daughter of the olden woman.

“You think as I do, don’t you, Billy?” And Anna Marie’s tone had a caress in it which made Billy’s ears a happy red.

“Yes, ma’am!” said Billy.

George was disgusted.

“You are the kind of a juryman,” said George, full of contempt, “that makes me tired. There, Anna Marie, take your yellow dog, and don’t try to play with me no more. You are too soft!”

Anna Marie felt that some vast deposit of good, hard sense lay hidden in George’s last remark. On her way to the house she did a good deal of thinking, as girls whose mothers are dead do now and then. The development of her cogitations was told in a remark to her girl friend:

“It’s so tiresome, this being a new woman! I am going to give it up. I am afraid, as father says, I am ‘not built right.’”

And thus it ended. Marie is exceedingly the olden woman now. She has beaten her sword into a pruning-hook, her bike into a spinning-wheel! She no longer walks with long, decided stride. She is a woman in all things, and will scream and chase a street car as if it were the last going that way for a week, like the tenderest and frailest of her kind. She has retracted as to bloomers. Anna Marie has returned to the agency, and forever abandoned the warpath of a new and manly womanhood.

THE PETERSENS

WHEN Chucky came into the little doggery where we were wont to converse, there arrived with him an emphatic odour of kerosene. Also Chucky’s face was worn and sad, and his hands were muffled with many bandages. To add to it all Chucky was not in spirits.